Though the World May Explode
by cardiffictionlocked1895
Summary: There's a good reason John hates Christmas. Sequel to 'Unusual Occupation'. AU. Celia's stepping back into the limelight, and what better place to do it than a family gathering? And by the end of the night, the latest soul she's put to rest might not be Victoria... JohnxMary, Adlock.
1. Chapter 1

Though the World May Explode

**Chapter 1- John**

Every night it's the same. The smoke, the smell of scorched flesh, Irene cradling Sherlock's head as his eyelids slide shut, the black horror on Aileen's face as she watches the car disappear into the horizon, the glowing eyes of that demon of a woman, the bloodstains on the floor, the nameless guard with his finger pulling back the trigger, and the gaping, ever-obvious absence of _her_. It's a recurring nightmare that will never leave me. And to think it began so innocently.

Her ghost haunts me constantly. It's as bad as the time I thought Sherlock was dead, after he jumped. I know I should want her to leave, but I'm always praying that she'll stay. I see her in the oddest places- the bullet holes above the sofa, the pack of cigarettes I'm forever having to find new hiding places for, the red shirt she once complimented me on, the jumper she gave me for my birthday that Sherlock hates.

Sherlock sees her too, I know. He'd never admit to it, but wherever he closes his mouth after he starts to nag me about something, I know it has to do with Mary.

I don't blame him, even though he's the main reason she's gone. But her death was just one last domino in a long line. And the person who pushed down the very first one, the person who started it all, was Celia.

And hell knows I've never been a very forgiving man.

000

The envelope was a bleeding crimson, the handwriting distantly female, with a gold insignia in the top right corner. There was no return address. Sherlock turned it over in his hands, examining it from every angle, finally reaching for the letter opener.

He looked at the short note for about two seconds before tossing it directly into the rubbish bin with disgust. "Her again. Apparently she still hasn't realized that texting me would be so much simpler. What is this, the nineteenth century? Well, then again, writing's probably just another way for her to fluent her wealth." Sherlock gestured to the envelope.

"Celia's still writing you? I'd thought she'd have given up by now." It had been six months since his second abduction, and she was proving to be annoyingly persistent.

"Normal people would have. They wouldn't miss me as much."

I leaned back in my chair just as his mobile chimed. "What's her obsession with you, anyway?"

"From the looks of it, I am exactly what she needs as protection. I did work out pretty well for her sister, after all- up to a certain point. And considering the fact she's a murderer on the run, she needs a human shield more than ever." He grabbed his phone, scrolling through his text messages, his arms resting on his knees. "How lovely. We've been invited to my father's house for Christmas dinner." He rolled his eyes, his words mocking. "No doubt Aileen's idea. That's one night of social agony I can miss."

"Are you sure? I kind of like your mum-"

"Does Mary know that?" he muttered, testing my self-control.

"Shut up. You know I don't mean it like that. But I'm guessing your parents…aren't too fond of each other?"

Sherlock nodded. "The divorce was never official. Mum moved away to the country when I was five. She was the only one who raised us, more or less, but we spent a few months each year at my father's house. Neither of them ever remarried. And I can't imagine what she's doing staying with him now. And yes, I know she's there- the man I call my father would never allow any unnecessary social ventures unless she _really_ pushed him." His mobile dinged again. "According to Mycroft, I can bring Irene and you can bring _her_. Well, if he thinks that's any motivation to come he's sorely mistaken." He started to type a response, no doubt declining the offer in the rudest way possible.

"Sherlock-"

He paused, not looking up. "Alright, you could bring _Mary_. Not that it matters, since we're not going-"

"No, Sherlock, listen for a minute, will you?"

He sighed and put his phone aside.

"I think we should go." He opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off again. "It would be good for you to get out. Besides, it's Christmas, and Mrs. Hudson's going to be on vacation. It's just a few hours. If it gets too awkward, we'll leave."

He contemplated my words for a bit, eventually giving in. "Fine."

Little did I know I was going to regret the decision for years to come.

_A/N: I know this chapter is short, but the rest will be the usual length. Also, the thing about the cigarettes and the bullet holes above the sofa are references to a one-shot I wrote- 'Almost'. It's under the title 'Human' because I'm trying to put all my Sherlock one-shots together, if you feel the need to check it out. Reviews really do make my day. –JC_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2- Irene**

_Christmas Day_

Moonlight illuminated the building in front of us through the lightly-falling snow, like some god-awful romantic holiday movie, giving Kate and I our first glimpse of the Holmes family manor as she pulled up into the driveway. It was undeniably impressive; lights glinted in every single window, garlands decorating the stone exterior. It was clearly old, but somehow had the odd feeling on being contemporary.

"Holy sh*t," Kate muttered, craning her neck to get a better look.

"Don't get too used to it." I stepped out of the car as a cab came up next to us. "That'll be them. I'll call you when it's over." She nodded, and I closed the car door behind me.

John got out, dusting off his suit and tie with one hand, his other arm wrapped around his fiancé's waist. She was remarkably average-looking, even in a tight red dress that showcased her figure- which, by the way, wasn't half as good as my own. Sherlock exited after him, wearing nothing beyond his usual suit jacket and trousers- and, of course, his overcoat and scarf. His face was completely impassive. He offered me his arm, and I took it, smiling, mostly to myself.

"Merry Christmas."

"Same to you." He took in my low-cut black dress underneath my winter coat. "Glad you didn't feel the need to make an impression on my family the same way you did to me."

I laughed, remembering our first meeting. "I only do that for the special ones." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly. Something about it made me want to be alone with him. But I knew it would never happen. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all.

We walked over the oversized doors, bracing ourselves for whatever horrors we might find inside. The butler opened them for us, showing the four of us to the parlor. Mycroft was waiting, drumming his fingers on his knees absentmindedly. "Good, you're here. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever come."

"We almost didn't," Sherlock shot back blandly, pulling away from me to sit close to the large fireplace, shouldering off his coat. The rest of us followed his lead just as our hosts entered the room.

I could see the resemblance between Sherlock and his mother all too clearly. The dark, curly hair, the light green eyes, even the cheekbones- though hers were noticeably less pronounced. Aileen couldn't have been younger than fifty, but if not for the fact her hair hinted at grey and the few wrinkles marring her pretty face, she could have posed as twenty-something.

Mr. Jack Holmes was an entirely different matter. Mycroft favored him, though the similarities weren't nearly as obvious. _His_ hair was completely grey, and he, like Mycroft, was starting to go bald. He had an air about him that made him seem to take up much more space than he really did. Judging his emotionless expression, he was more an inhuman machine than his sons were even capable of being.

Aileen immediately went over to us and wished us all a happy Christmas, embracing Sherlock, who didn't appreciate her efforts. "Father," he acknowledged his dad stonily, any spark of life in his eyes replaced with a distant loathing. The answering greeting was no less cold.

We made our way to the dining hall. Butlers stood reverently on either side a long glossy table that could seat twenty people with room to spare. Clearly, Mr. Holmes was a fan of being old-fashioned. I sat down between Sherlock and Aileen. John sat across from Sherlock, with Mary next to him, and Mycroft on her other side. Jack Holmes took up his place at the head of the table.

Needless to say, dinner was a quiet affair. Aileen engaged Sherlock and me in a slightly awkward conversation about our relationship, how we met, etc. John and Mary talked to each other in low voices, and Mycroft and Jack simply ate in silence. I guess I didn't really expect anything else, knowing Sherlock. Of course his family wouldn't exactly be social butterflies.

Then, a spilt second later, the uneasy atmosphere shattered.

Two men burst into the hall, each carrying a gun, shooting at no particular target. Sherlock dived into the nearest room, pulling me with him, his eyes scanning the dining room- searching for John. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John, Mary, and Aileen ran into the room opposite ours. I shut the door and locked it, pushing a dresser against it, praying that would be enough. I heard someone yell in the distance, and I peered underneath the door, watching two pairs of black boots strutted into the hall. One of the killers cursed, and I sucked in my breath as I noticed the blood seeping out of an unmoving form. "She told us to bring them alive, idiot," a man spit out the words.

"This one's still breathing." The other's voice was slightly higher, making me inclined to think he wasn't much more than a boy. He nudged another dark form with his shoe.

"Good." The first man grunted. "Maybe she won't fire both of us then. Where's the last one?"

"I thought she only wanted the two…"

"She did only want two, you git. And I _distinctly_ remember one had dark hair. Neither of these have much hair at all, never mind dark."

The boy sighed. "Well, how am I supposed to know where he's hiding?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe you should attempt to use that thing in your thick head for once. It's called a brain. Ever heard of it?"

"Very funny. If you're so superior, perhaps you should do her dirty work by yourself next time."

"Shut up and help me with these." They lifted to the two bodies by the armpits, their bickering fading to background noise.

I shifted my attention back to Sherlock, abruptly becoming aware that he hadn't spoken since we'd reached our hiding place. I bit back a panicked scream as I realized the left side of his shirt was soaked through. He followed my gaze, touching his wound, his fingers coming back bloody. He stared them like he couldn't grasp what he was seeing. His breath hitched. I lifted his head onto my lap, thinking how curiously young he looked. "Bullet…must have …"

"Shh." I hushed him. I wiped away the wetness from my eyes. "Don't you dare close your eyes, Sherlock." I was already starting to get John, and by the time I glanced back at him, he was out cold, my words unheeded. I sighed and cracked the door open an inch. The dining hall was empty, food scattered everywhere, blood soaking the floor. The servants must have made a run for it when the men first began shooting, since I didn't see any more bodies.

I threw open the door of the room the other three had disappeared into. None of them were injured, except for several small wounds and bruises, thanks to pure luck. "John," I gasped, barely holding myself together. "Sherlock…he got shot."

John flew past, almost tripping over himself in the effort to get to his friend. I forced myself to stay and explain to the others what I had seen from under the door. Mrs. Holmes was nearly in hysterics hearing it. I couldn't blame her, considering one of her sons was bleeding to death and either her husband or other son was now dead, and whoever wasn't was seriously wounded as well.

Five minutes, John came back, carrying Sherlock. "We need to get him to a hospital, now!"

"I'll call an ambulance." I fumbled through my purse for my mobile when something behind me clicked. I froze, and turned around slowly.

Standing just a few feet behind Mary was a woman holding yet another gun. She smiled, her soft voice dripping with poisonous threats.

"I don't think that will be necessary."

_A/N: R&R -JC_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3- John**

"I don't think that will be necessary." Celia grinned at us. The urge I had been harboring six months ago to beat her senseless came back with a vengeance. "Hands behind your heads, darlings."

I set Sherlock down carefully, raising my arms slowly. Mary and Irene did the same, but Aileen abruptly pulled a pistol from her pocket, leveling it with Celia's chest, the worried expression that had been on her face moments ago, replaced with a hard, empty one.

Sherlock's old abductor just laughed. "Oh, I do enjoy the stubborn ones." She cocked her own gun and shot straight at Aileen's hand, knocking the pistol out of it cleanly. On centimeter over and she'd have taken of her trigger finger. Aileen moved shaking hands into the air. "Now, isn't this better? Everything's so much simpler."

"Why are you even here?" My self-control was all but non-existent. Was this woman _ever_ going to leave us alone? "Two of your men did your job for you."

That deadly smile of hers was back. "At last, someone who asks the right questions. Yes, they did, but I came to make sure they did it the way they were supposed it. They failed, of course." She made a _tut, tut_ noise, shaking her head sadly. "Regrettably, there was a causality, and that's one causality too many. _And_ they injured both of the two people I _specifically _told them not to shoot at. Originally, all I wanted was the brothers. They would have more than sufficed. But since you're all here anyway, I switched plans. And so far it's been working out rather well." Celia snapped her fingers, and another man came rushing in, one who was quite a bit shorter than the other two. She gestured to me. "Get this man anything he needs to fix Mr. Holmes here. There's been a change in procedures. We're going to set up base here. And please let Gregson and Motter know that I _really_ hate when my goods are damaged." I picked up my best friend for a second time, his body limp and oddly light in my arms, as the man lead me to a room, completely empty except for a chair and a steel table. Lying Sherlock down on it, I found myself examining his wound as if he was just another patient, making a list of all the supplies I required. The man somehow managed to find every single of them, making me guess that Celia had thought ahead and brought a lot of most likely stolen medical equipment with her, because there was no way Mr. Holmes kept all of it. Finally the little man left, locking the door as he went.

It was only when I started actually working on Sherlock that it occurred to me what had a very good chance of happening if I made a mistake. My fingers trembling dangerously, I removed the bullet and cleaned to hole it left, stopping the flow of blood, all while trying extremely hard not to think and failing horribly.

I had just begun stitching him up when Sherlock stirred. "Mmm…" His eyelids fluttered, fighting to stay open despite the overbearing pain.

It hit me that I didn't have any sedative, and I definitely did not want him to be awake for this. The man must have been watching, because as I grappled frantically for a solution, my hands rummaging through the box of supplies he'd given me, he calmly opened the door, waiting patiently for instructions.

"Get me Irene." I prayed that, for once, she had one of those tranquilizers on her that she had used on Sherlock before out of what she would call necessity. Frankly, I didn't trust any sedatives that Celia had ever come into contact with. Knowing her, they were to have some kind of unpleasant side-effect that she would find amusing. To my surprise, he humored me, shutting her in with me, saying we had two minutes.

Irene held out a syringe filled with clear liquid. "I never leave the house without one."

"Thank God for that," I murmured, pushing the needle into the bend of Sherlock's elbow. He opened his eyes all the way this time, still impulsively struggling.

She stroked his cheek reassuringly. "Relax, love." Slowly he gave in, going still once again. Irene turned to me. "How is he?"

Her tone suggested that she was more worried than she was letting on. Amazing how high stakes expose our priorities. "He'll be alright."

"Time's up." The little man appeared at the door. Irene sighed resignedly and followed him out of the room. I listened as the lock clicked back into place, wishing I was anywhere but here.

000

When I finally finished with the stitches, I spared a glance at my watch. 10:51. We'd come here seven. I leaned back in my uncomfortable chair, fidgeting, when it occurred to me that I didn't even know who the casualty was- Mycroft or his father. I hoped for Sherlock's sake it was Mr. Holmes, knowing how Mycroft had basically raised Sherlock.

Suddenly the door burst open, announcing Celia's entrance. She shot me a quick smile of thanks, striding over to Sherlock, trailing by four guards flaunting their weapons- trigger-happy rookies. She started to touch his hair, and his hand jerked up, catching her wrist. "Not you, too," he moaned, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Celia was bad enough. Irene's always playing with it as well…what _is_ it with my hair that you find so intriguing?"

He hadn't noticed how her eyes tightened when he mentioned Irene. "What is it with that bit** _you_ find so intriguing?" His knuckles went white as he squeezed her arm, his eyes flashing, anticipating what was coming next. "I could have her killed, you know."

She'd apparently laid it on a little too thick, because a moment later Sherlock had her back pressed against the wall, his forearm shoved under her chin, his face inches from hers. "Do _not_ think you can win me over by threating anyone here. It will fail every time." Two of the guards cocked their guns, instantaneously taking their aim at Sherlock.

Needless to say, everything fell apart in matter of moments.


End file.
